


Upon The Heights

by Ias



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Deathfic, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Why do I do this to myself, post-BotFA, the one where Bilbo dies in the battle instead of Thorin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:00:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/pseuds/Ias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after the Battle of The Five Armies, Thorin travels to a single solitary grave beneath the boughs of an oak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Upon The Heights

The dawn broke clear and pale, the sun emerging from behind the horizon and deepening the shadows on the side of the Lonely Mountain. The rocks and wiry saplings shooting up from the wasted countryside turned gilded, and the chill of the night began slowly melting away. A clear blue sky above promised one of the finest days of the summer. Thorin resented it immediately.

Two years. It defied belief, how quickly time seemed to pass while the days dragged on so long. Thorin spread his palms over the balcony, the heat from his palms bleeding into the stone. Two years ago he had looked out over this very same mountainside, unrecognizable under the swarm of warring bodies, and thought that perhaps he might die there. It seemed he could do nothing right.

He clenched his teeth and shouldered the rucksack he had prepared for himself the night before. Dwelling on the past could wait. There was a long walk ahead of him.

For the past few weeks, the people around him had been showing him intolerable kindness. Whenever Fili and Kili found him walking the hallways alone, they insisted on accompanying him. He discovered an elaborately knitted scarf at his door from a mysterious benefactor who was quite clearly Ori. Dwalin demanded a sparring session ever day, and Balin would often smile at him with more sympathy than he could bear. He loved them all more dearly than anything, but at this time of year he hated them all.

Still, none of them spoke of it. They did not need to. It was as loud on the air as a constant, unbearable shriek, as persistent as a heartbeat which you could only sometimes make yourself forget. Thorin’s days became consumed with the act of avoidance—not thinking, not speaking, not seeing anything that might put those words and images in his head. By now he was quite good at it.

The guards did not try to stop him as he slipped out of one of Erebor’s many side tunnels. In his chambers he had left a note where Balin would likely find it, although he was sure that the old dwarf already knew. A great feast had been planned in honor of the anniversary of their victory, and Thorin saw no reason why he should darken the festivities with his presence. He had attended the celebration last year—never again. Good cheer was something hard-won these days, and Thorin wouldn’t begrudge of others what he couldn’t seem to capture himself.

A shrunken, narrow path wound away from the small doorway to the mountain, curling around the crags of the mountain and disappearing over a rise. Thorin’s feet followed it on instinct; he had walked it many times. Perhaps it was not fitting for the King of Erebor to be slipping away like this. As far as Thorin was concerned, anyone who thought so could go bugger themselves. His boots crunched and slid on the loose chunks of stone.

The journey would last nearly a full day, and that left far too much time for Thorin to be alone with his thoughts. On his third time making this trip he devised a little game to occupy his mind as he walked, listing off menial facts until they consumed him. He had read an entire comprehensive history of the lineage of various Dwarf clans in preparation for this particular walk. He started with something easy. _Durin the deathless, Durin IV, Nain I, Thrain I…_

Even with such distractions, he was well aware when he began to grow close. The sun was near the center of the sky when he passed a certain rock, which to any other pair of eyes would have been unrecognizable. To Thorin it sent a stab of some unpleasant emotion through his chest—Fear? Anger? He couldn’t place it, and it hardly mattered. What mattered was that he was almost there.

The landscape around Erebor was still sparse and desolate, even a year after the Dragon’s demise—but the further Thorin got, the more tough grass gave way to meadows and wildflowers eked out amount the rocks, and the scraggly trees grew thicker and fuller until Thorin was walking in the shade. Here, just a few minutes from his destination, the area could almost resemble a proper forest; certain rocks were still dark with smoke, but here when he came across the charred husk of a tree it was overgrown with vines and moss. The air smelled sweet and clean, yet each breath came harder with every step he took. The path had long since disappeared under the undergrowth, but he knew the way.

And then, with no further fanfare, he was there. The trees opened up around him into a small clearing, carpeted with tall grass and flowers which swayed lazily in the sun. Somewhere a bird was singing. The air felt comfortably warm against his skin, and a feeling of safety washed over him—yet his heart still beat slightly harder than it should have.

 He approached the center of the meadow, where a large oak tree wound its way up to the sky. It was much larger than it should have been for its age, but Gandalf did have quite a few tricks up his sleeves. Perhaps one day Thorin would be able to forgive him. In this place anything seemed possible. Well. Almost anything.

At the foot of the tree there was a small slab of stone. The words on it were so familiar that Thorin did not read them. On top of it had been placed a small Elven blade, with runes curving across the metal and the tip still honed sharp. Gandalf had also assured him that it would never be stolen, and that it would not rust in the elements. Thorin still couldn’t help but to check. His fingers trailed over the grip, the memory of the other hands which had once held it all too strong. It was hard to believe that such a little thing had once been brandished in the face of Azog the Defiler. The absurdity of the memory was practically enough to make Thorin laugh. He did not.

For a long time he just stood there, staring and thinking about nothing for as long as he could make himself. It felt as if his chest were full of flies, all of them buzzing and jostling and struggling to get out. Yet as soon as he stepped forward and sank down before the tombstone, something inside of him shifted. He sat down and leaned back until his shoulders rested against the stone. Even through his shirt, he could feel how cold it was. All the same, the knot in his chest slowly begin to go slack under the warm sun and the soft grass. The times when he had stood in this very spot and shouted until his voice dried up seemed so far away. Now, even when he wanted nothing more than to pour all his fury and grief out at the base of this tree, he found he couldn’t—suddenly he had none left.

What he had instead, for the first time in a long time, were words.

“You would think we could have found a suitable place just a little closer,” he said quietly. “If it were up to me, you would have been laid in the heart of Erebor, with enough jewels and gold to humble a king. But Gandalf insisted you would like this better. I suppose he was right.” Bilbo did not belong in the earth at all. Death was no proper state for him; he had been far too much alive for it. Yet here he was all the same.

“The others miss you,” he continued. “They hide it well. We all do. But the hurt is still there—just buried deep. We, ah.” He shook his head. “We don’t talk about it.” With a sigh, Thorin leaned his head back until it rested on the stone. Above him the leaves shivered and rustled in the breeze. “Two years, Bilbo. I can’t believe it’s been so long.”

He smiled to himself, a sad little twist of the lips. “You know, sometimes I wish I had never met you. I think about that night in your kitchen, back when it was warm and safe and we had scarcely met each other, and would give anything to have never found my way to your door. Perhaps then neither of us would be here now.”

He fell silent, the words stopping in his throat. For a moment he sat fiddling with the straps on his gloves, eventually yanking them off and dragging a hand over his face before continuing.“Yet I am more selfish than I can sometimes stand. Because I know, if suddenly I was standing back at your door with the choice to leave you alone, I would knock all the harder.” He swallowed. “I wish it had been different. I never knew you as I would have wanted to—I didn’t lose a friend, but a future. I feel that this is wrong, that it’s you who should be sitting here talking to a rock and a tree instead of me. But wanting something doesn’t make it real. I learned that very quickly.”

Against all odds, he laughed. “I’ve said the very same things to you over and over in a hundred different ways. You must be tired of hearing them. I suppose we can both look forward to the day when they no longer need to be said.”

He looked down. “I only hope that you knew, Bilbo. That you know now.”

This time when the words fled from his tongue, they did not come back. He sat in the hush of the wood, with the insects whirring above under the trilling of a songbird. There was more he would have to say, and more of the same. But there would be time for that—all the time in the world.

The wind had picked up, rushing over the treetops and carrying stray leaves away with one long, slow breath. It tugged at Thorin’s hair, and when he closed his eyes it felt as if someone was gently stroking it. He couldn’t remember the last time silence had felt like this. His fingers threaded into the warm grass, and for a while Bilbo’s hand was holding his own.


End file.
